Bluff Head was closed. The master had left word with Eliza Jane Smith
that after his departure the house key should be delivered to Janet with
a note of explanation.
The note reminded her that next to Captain Billy, he was the one upon
whom she must call in case of need, and he left the library in her
keeping with a list of books for study and recreation.
Snow was on everything, even on the new little grave in the desolate
churchyard where poor Maud Grace and her pitiful secret slept. They had
found the child late in the morning of that awful day succeeding the
storm. In the small clinched left hand was a bit of water-soaked paper.
No one but Mark had taken heed of it, but he guessed that it was the
card which was to guide the girl to the man who had deserted her.
Perhaps in that last hour of struggle and fear, she had taken it from
its hiding place for comfort or, perhaps, to destroy it when hope was
past. But it gave no clue. It was merely a wet pulp in a thin little
rigid hand!
Mrs. Jo G. took her grief stolidly. It was not in her to cry out or
moan, but she felt her loss and sought to explain the strange ending to
the young life.
"'T was this way," she said to Eliza Jane Smith, "the boarders, an' all
the life of the summer, had onsettled Maud Grace considerable. She
wanted company all the time. She sort o' turned t' Janet, an', like as
not, that mornin' she went t' the Light t' see her. Not findin' her, an'
seein' the _Comrade_ at the dock an' John Jones's boat puttin' back t'
the Station, like Davy said he had done, Maud Grace just fixed it in her
mind that Janet was with John Jones, an' so she took the _Comrade_ an'
went after them. Then when the wind came up, she lost her head, an'
so--" Mrs. Jo G. at this juncture hid her face in her checked apron and
silently rocked back and forth. She could not think of the night and
storm, the lonely, frightened girl dashed hither and yon in the little
boat, without breaking down. Life near the dunes was stern and the
people had learned to accept calmly the storm and danger, but, just at
first, it was always hard.
Mark Tapkins divided his time between his home and the Light, but no
longer did he raise his eyes to Janet. Mark had got his bearings at
last, and was steering his lonely way through sullen and bitter waters.
Trouble had set a strange dignity upon him.
Davy, seeing others downcast, rose to tuneful heights. Not only the
landings, but the house, the long flight of steps, and the windswept
balcony and shining Light knew his cheerful songs.
"Singin' 's a might clarifyin' exercise," he said to Janet; "it opens
the body an' soul, so t' speak, an' lets more'n the tune an' words out.
The angels sing in glory, an' I mind how 't is said the mornin' stars
sang together. So long as I've got a voice, I'm goin' t' sing, an' drown
the sound of worse things." So Davy sang and guided many a sad thought
into safer channels.
Over at the Station the crew patiently went through their routine. The
short dark days passed with the monotony that was second nature to the
brave fellows. Perhaps their greatest courage was displayed in their
homely, detached lives. They cooked; they slept; they drilled and
patrolled the beach. They talked little to each other; but they were
ready for near and far-off duty, should a signal be displayed. Small
wages repaid them for their faithful endurance; they were not permitted
to add to their income by other labor, and they knew that when age or
weakness overtook them the government they served as faithfully as any
soldier could, would discard them for younger or stronger men.
Nevertheless they bore their part uncomplainingly through deadly
loneliness or tragic danger.
"It looks like it was goin' t' be a hard winter, settin' in so early an'
so persistent," said Billy one day. Billy took more heed of the weather
than did the others. The patrols tired him more now than they ever had
before.
"Like as not!" agreed Jared Brown; "I saw a skim of porridge ice, this
side the bar, as I turned in this mornin'."
Billy nodded.
"Janet comin' on this winter?"
"No, she's mostly goin' t' stay off. Davy needs her more'n I do, an' 't
ain't no fit place over here for jest one woman."
"'T ain't that!" The smoke rose high between the men.
"Heard how Mark Tapkins seems t' feel Jo G.'s gal's death?"
"Yes! yes!"
"I thought once 't was your Janet."
"Well, 't warn't." Billy felt justified in this denial, though at one
time he had thought so himself.
"There don't seem t' be any one likely fur Janet hereabouts. A little
larnin' spiles a gal, Billy."
"Is them yer sentimints?"
"They be."
"Well, folks differ. Janet pleases me."
"Yes, but ye can't 'spect to handle Janet's craft forever. She's got t'
rely 'pon her own sailin' some day."
"Like as not, but when that time comes, Janet'll take the tiller without
any fuss. That's the way she's built."
"Like as not."
Over on the mainland, James B. was comfortably happy. With the closing
of Bluff Head, his unmistakable duty ended. He could take no other job
while waiting for Billy's delayed surrender, and he could loaf at the
village store or sleep behind his own kitchen stove in virtuous comfort.
He was at peace with the world and had no desire to see Billy resign
from the crew in his favor.
Social functions grew apace as winter clutched the coast in real
earnest. The donation party was a brilliant success--from the
congregation's point of view. They had a good time and made deep inroads
into the provisions they had brought, leaving the cleaning up for the
minister's wife. Christmas festivities lightened the time, too, and for
a space made the hard-working men and women as gay as little children.
Several travelling entertainments later had shown a fraternal spirit and
"stopped over" at Quinton. They were always generously patronized and
left a ripple of excitement behind them. One inspired some of the young
people of the place to start a dramatic society. It began with an energy
that threatened to swamp all other social and religious functions. After
many rehearsals a play was announced, and the entire population turned
out in force. The play was given in Deacon Thomas's parlor, because that
had a rear room opening into it that could be used as a stage, but one
scenic touch in the stage property doomed the aspiring artists to defeat
and the society to annihilation.
A donkey was required in the play. No one had genius nor ambition enough
to create an entire one, but a very realistic head was constructed, and
this, fastened to a broomstick and thrust forward at the psychological
moment, produced a startling and thrilling effect. The audience was
stirred to its depth. Most of the young people were either on the stage
or behind the curtain; but the few who were in the audience broke into
cheers, which were quickly quelled by Deacon Thomas, whose son John had
led the applause. He bent forward and gripped Deacon Farley by the
shoulder.
"Silas!" he said, "I don't see anythin' sinful in the speakin' part, but
that animal is too much like a theayter!"
That was the battle cry of defeat. The "theayter," to Quinton, was as
pernicious as a bullfight would have been to a Puritan.
Janet, who was accountable for the donkey head, felt a real
disappointment in the downfall of the dramatic society. It had appealed
to her artistic, imaginative nature. In it she saw a glimmer of
enjoyment which all the other village pastimes lacked. She loved
dancing, but, without knowing why, she disliked to dance with the young
men of the place. With the yearning of youth for popularity and
companionship she felt the growing conviction that she was outside the
inner circle. Davy had closed the lips of idle gossipers, but even he
was unable to open the hearts of suspicious neighbors. The girl longed
to draw to herself human love and loyalty, but her every attempt
failed.
"Davy," she said with a deep sigh, "I reckon I'm just a bungler.
Everything I do seems wrong. I'm afraid,"--and here she grew
dreamy,--"I'm afraid I'm like the poor poplars. I see over the dunes. I
see too much, and I frighten others."
"'T ain't overwise, Janet," mused Davy through the tobacco smoke, "to
get t' thinkin' what ye are an' what ye ain't. Let other folks do that.
Jest be somethin'."
"Yes, yes, Davy, but what? Everything I try to be, I fail in." Janet
thought of the chance that lay in the distant city and wondered if she
would have failed there.
"Well, I allus take it," Davy replied, "that the good God gives us jest
as much t' do as we're able t' do, an' He wants it well done. He ain't
goin' t' chuck jobs around t' folks that ain't equal t' doin' well what
they has in hand. Fur instance," Davy pointed his remark with the stem
of his pipe, "ye ain't such an all-fired good housekeeper as ye might
be!"
"I know it, Davy."
"An' yer clo'es, while they become ye like as not, have a loose look in
the sewin' that might be bettered. The fact is, Janet, ye ain't
pertikiler 'bout the fussin' things! An' it may be, yer way lies in
perfectin' yerself in the fussin's of life."
"Oh! you dear Davy!" Janet was laughing above her inclination to cry. "I
do believe you are right. I'm going to pay particular attention to the
little fussy things. Dear knows! if I do them all well, I'll have little
time for discontent." She stood up--she and Davy were in the living
room, while Mark was doing duty aloft--and flung her strong, young arms
above her head.
"Davy, I wish just once in my life I could--let myself go! I don't care
much how, but just go! I'd like to take a ship out to sea, not the bay
but the open, middle ocean, and go just where I pleased."
"Ye'd get wrecked fust thing!" broke in Davy.
"But I'd be doing something big until I got wrecked. Or I'd like to be
alone on a great desert where I could shout and dance and sing, and no
one would be there to call me mad."
"But ye'd be mad, jest the same." Davy was watching the flashing face
uneasily. The gossip that had drifted to him had but strengthened his
love and care for Billy's girl. He was a hardy support now, protecting
this free nature from outer harm and inward hurt.
"No, no, Janet! Don't hanker arter the ocean nor the desert till ye know
how t' handle yerself. Oceans an' deserts ain't no jokes fur
greenhorns. I heard Mark say the bay was froze over. That don't happen
often, so early as this."
"I'm going to get my ice boat out to-morrow, Davy. Life on an ice boat
is life! A sailboat is not bad with a good wind, but you always have to
take the _water_ into your reckoning then. But the ice--ah! There is
nothing there but you and the wind to consider!"
"An' holes!" Davy added.
"You're just an old pessimist, Davy." Janet laughed.
"Like as not!" Davy agreed. He hadn't an idea what a pessimist was, but
he never wasted time inquiring as to the labels others attached to him.
* * * * *
That night, winter, in its grimmest sense, settled upon Quinton. The bay
became a glistening roadway between the mainland and the dunes. Children
on skates or in ice boats filled the short, cold days with laughter and
fun. Sleighing parties flashed hither and yonder with never a fear of a
crack or hole; and beyond the dunes the life crew kept a keener watch
upon the outer bar. Chunky ice formed near shore, and the tides bore it
inward and left it high upon the beach. Day by day it grew in height
like a shining, curving line of alabaster, showing where the high-water
mark had been. And upon a certain threatening day, John Thomas came off
and stopped at the Light to have a word with Davy.
"He didn't want me t' say anythin' t' ye, but it don't settle on my mind
as jest right not t'. Billy's had a spell!"
Davy pulled up his trousers; with him a sure sign of deep emotion.
"What kind?" he asked.
"Sort o' peterin' out. He was peelin' taters in the Station, when all of
a suddint he sot down kinder forcible on a chair, dropped the knife an'
tater, an' looked at me as if I'd done somethin' t' him. I ran crost t'
him an' stood by, so t' speak. Then he kinder laughed an' said, distant
an' thick, 'That was comical! I felt like my works had run down!' Billy
ain't what he once was."
Davy set his lips in a grim line.
"He ought t' have a lighter job!" he muttered. "How is he now?"
"Oh! he's come round. But spells is spells an' yer got t' look out.
Don't tell Janet; Billy was sot agin that, somethin' fierce."
"I don't know as Billy should want t' shield her more'n common sense
p'ints. I feel she ought t' know. 'T ain't pleasant t' get a knock in
the back of yer head; an' that's what Janet's goin' t' get some day
about Billy."
"He says she knows enough; an' he ain't goin' t' have her pestered."
"Well, t'-morrer I'm goin' on," nodded Davy, "an' Billy ain't goin' t'
honey fugle me none. Arter I cast my eye on him, I'm goin' t' give
myself orders. Sighted anythin' lately?"
"A schooner got mighty near the bar 'long 'bout sundown last night.
Kinder skittish actin' hussy she was, but she turned out an' cleared off
without much trouble. We was all ready fur her."
"Big sea, too!"
"Powerful! An' I tole Cap'n that I've got kind o' superstitious 'bout
them boats as make a near call an' then sidle off. Twict durin' my time
a real thing has happened soon after. Seems like they come t' see if yer
watchin'; kinder gettin' yer attention, so t' speak, an' warnin' ye that
ye ain't there fur fun. I'm goin' on 'bout three this afternoon. Sky
looks nasty."
"It does that!" agreed Davy, "an' it's my turn up aloft t'-night. I
somehow feel more certain when I'm there myself in foul weather. Mark
ain't never done anythin' t' cause me t' distrust him, but Lord! he's
got that unfortnit air of makin' ye distrust yerself about him."
"Mark lacks salt!" John laughed good-naturedly. "If he an' Pa had a dash
o' seasonin' in 'em, they'd be all right; they're flat, that's all."
"Like as not!" Davy said; "but flats ain't the best kind o' things t'
run on, in a storm."
So Davy held his peace regarding Billy's spell, until he could have a
look at Billy himself; and all that cold, dreary day Janet worked at the
small fussy things of her daily life, keeping her hands busy but having
time and to spare for her active brain to wander far. She lived over
again the summer, the wonderful summer. She felt the yearning for books
and the quiet of the Bluff Head library. She recalled Devant with a
sense of hurt and pity; but Thornly came to her memory with a radiance
that grew with absence and, perhaps, forgetfulness on his part.
With the proud young womanhood that remained with the girl like a royal
birthright, the knowledge of all that Thornly's renunciation of her help
in his art meant brought the warm blood to her cheek and a prayer of
gratitude to her lips. She could afford to live and work apart; she
could be glad in worshipping her ideal of all that was brave and manly,
even though she knelt forever before an empty shrine.
Billy and Davy loomed upon her near horizon in added splendor. Ah! she
had known such good men! She was very blest. And so she sang as she
worked.
About noon of the winter's day, James B. slouched down to the Light and
entered the living room where Janet sat darning Davy's coarse gray
socks.
"Has John Thomas gone on yet?" he asked.
"No," said Janet, "his boat is at the dock."
"I'm thinkin' of goin' on with him. Looks like a rough enough storm was
comin' up, an' if anythin' should happen an' extry hand or two, over at
the Station, wouldn't come amiss. Eliza Jane's been havin' feelin's in
her bones that I better be over there."
Janet's eyes flashed, but the drooping lids hid them. She could not tell
why, but every time James B. went over to the Station she resented it.
It seemed as if he were keeping an eye on Cap'n Billy, and it aroused
her dislike and suspicion.
"Eliza Jane's bones must be troublesome for the rest of the family," she
said.
"They be!" nodded James. "I told Eliza Jane t'-day, that t' be rooted
out in the teeth of the kind of storm this one is like t' be, jest fur
feelin's in her bones, warn't exactly fair t' me."
"Why do you go?" The girl raised her great eyes and looked full at him.
His furtive glance fell.
"'Cause Eliza Jane said t'!" he answered doggedly. "She was down t' Miss
Thomas's an' when she knew John Thomas was off, she sot her mind on my
goin' on with him. I kind o' hoped he was gone."
"Well, he isn't. There he goes now down to the dock. It's queer he
doesn't stop and speak a minute."
James B. slouched toward the door. "Any message fur Cap'n Billy?" he
said.
"Just my love, and tell him I'm coming on to-morrow or next day. Shut
the door, James, the wind comes in as if it were solid."
She watched the two men make ready the little ice boat, she saw them get
aboard, and almost on the instant the steadily increasing wind caught
the toy-like thing and bore it with amazing speed past the Point and
over toward the dunes!
Then an anxiety grew in her heart. Of late she had been subject mentally
to sensations that in a measure were similar to those that affected
Eliza Jane's bones. She was depressed or elated without seeming cause.
It annoyed and shamed her, but she could not control it. John Thomas's
return to the Station without a word to her, his visit to his mother and
Eliza Jane's prompt despatch of James B. to the dunes, grew to ominous
proportions, as the lonely girl dwelt upon them.
"I wonder if my Cap'n Daddy is all right?" she thought wistfully. She
was merely carrying out Billy's desire in remaining so much upon the
mainland; her own inclination was for the desolate little cottage near
the Station, and the loving companionship of Billy.
"I don't care what he says," she whispered to herself, "I'm going to go
on and stay with him part of the time! I need him even if he doesn't
need me." She wiped her tears upon the rough gray sock that covered her
hand. "I'm just like Mark. Because I cannot do what I'm fit to do, I'm
failing in everything. There is no use! I must go to Cap'n Billy, and
learn to be happy with him and--nothing else!"
The determination to go to the dunes brought a sense of comfort with it,
but a nervousness grew apace. It was as if, now that she had decided to
go, she was in a hurry to start. She was conscious of a trembling
eagerness in every act. She put her mending away; she prepared the
noonday meal with vigor and intensity, selecting what she knew Davy most
liked.
"This is a feast!" gloated Davy, looking around his humble board and
sniffing appreciatively the steaming favorites. "Looks like ye'd caught
on, Janet."
"So I have, Davy, I've gripped for sure and certain."
"Didn't tell ye, did I, that Mark is goin'?"
"Going where?" Janet laid down her knife and fork, and looked
interested.
"Him an' Pa is goin' t' build, 'twixt here an' the Hills, an' open a
inn. They plan t' move the old house down, an' jine it on."
"An inn?" Janet laughed.
"Them was his words. A inn! Sometimes it seems like Mark was walkin' o'
a dark night on cold, wet sand. He slaps down his foot, sort o'
careless, an' strikes phosphorus. He ain't got, what ye might call,
seein' qualities, but he strikes out light! That's the way it was with
him tellin' Pa 'bout sellin' crullers. The old man made a small fortin.
An' now this inn will pan out, you jest mark my words. It stands t'
reason folks would rather go to a inn than to a boardin' house!" Davy
grinned at Janet over a cup of tea green enough and strong enough to
curl any ordinary tongue.
"Pa's goin' t' cook, an' Mark's goin' t' run the business," added Davy.
"Well, they'll have good cooking." Janet smiled as she thought of the
scheme. "Maybe they'll let me wait upon table."
"Like as not they will if ye want t'. Well, 't ain't any more than fair,
ye consarned little trap, but that ye should do yer turn at waitin' on
Mark. Sho! just hear that gale, will ye! It's steered round an' is
comin' straight off sea. By gum! If any craft drifts on t' the bar
t'-night there's goin' t' be spry dancin' at the Station." Davy went to
the window, and peered out. The early afternoon was bitterly cold, and
darkened by wind-driven clouds, full of storm and fury.
"They've got an extra hand, such as it is." Janet came and stood close
by Davy.
"Who?" he asked.
"James B. He went on with John Thomas."
"Did, did he? Well, by gum! Janet, I wish to thunder I could get Billy
to give up the Life Crew an' take Mark's place here!"
"Why, Davy?" There was intensity and pathos in the question, and trouble
in the gentle eyes.
"'Cause!" vouchsafed Davy, "jest 'cause. That's why. Fetch me a bite in
the lamp, Janet, 'long 'bout sundown. I ain't comin' down, once I go up
this afternoon. I ain't lookin' fur trouble. 'T ain't my way, but
somehow, when such a night as this is like t' be settles down, it don't
seem anythin' more'n friendly fur me t' bear the Light company."
So Janet cleared the dinner away; she found little tasks to fill the
darkening hours, and with eagerness prepared the tray for Davy and took
it aloft at sundown. By that time the wind was almost a hurricane; and
before it were driven sharp sheets of snow that cut and sounded as they
sped madly landward. The tower swayed perceptibly. Davy's face was
grimly careworn, and his manner forbade sociability.
Janet waited a few moments; then, realizing Davy's mood, left the tray
and went below. But now a trembling and inward terror possessed her. She
tried to shake off the feeling with contempt for her folly. She sang,
remembering Davy's philosophy, "When ye sing ye open the safety valve
fur more to get out than words an' music." But this song gave relief
only to sound and mental action.
Early night came with eagerness, as if, for the doing of what was to be
done, the black pall was alone appropriate.
"Why, any one would think,"--Janet stood by the window and her teeth
chattered as she spoke,--"any one would think I was that white girl at
Bluff Head instead of Cap'n Billy's girl. I afraid of a storm! I, housed
and safe at the Light! I, who, in many such a gale, trotted after Cap'n
Billy just for pure fun. It's time I went on and got the dune tonic for
my foolish nerves. _Me_ with nerves!"
Then she ran to the door and opened it slowly, pushing against it to
stay the wind.
"I thought!" she moaned, "I thought I heard a call!" The memory of the
night that poor Maud Grace went down beyond the Point added keenness to
her fancy. "It sounded like that call. Ah! as long as I live I shall
remember it. I do believe it was Maud. I always shall, no matter what
they say."
The howling of the wind drowned the girl's words, but her strained face
pressed against the opening and her senses were alert. "I hear it!" she
panted, "I hear that call! Suppose, oh! suppose that it is my Cap'n
Billy calling? If he were on the patrol and in danger, he would call to
me. He would know I could not hear, but he would call, just for
comfort!"
Again the burdened wind shrieked outside. The face at the door grew
ghastly and the eyes terror-filled.
"There are more ways of hearing than one!" she muttered. "Cap'n Daddy, I
am coming!"
Who was there to stay her with word of caution? Who was there to control
her as she made ready to answer the heart-call of her beloved Billy?
Now that doubt had fled, a calmness possessed her. She was indifferent.
First she wrote a note to Davy and placed it, open and conspicuous,
beside his plate; she had laid the breakfast table half an hour before.
"I've gone to Billy. Took my ice boat." That was all, but Davy would
understand. Then she wrapped herself warmly, covering all with an oiler
and pulling a sou'wester well down over her ears. Finally she
extinguished the lamp, let herself out of the door, and ran, in the face
of the gale, to the dock. There she paused.
"I'd have to tack miles off my course," she muttered, "I had forgotten
the direction of the wind." There was nothing to do but take to the ice,
and walk and run as she could! It was an awful undertaking, but the girl
did not pause. The call for help came only when she hesitated; while
she acted her nerves were calm. So, with head bent forward and low,
Janet set out for the dunes.
Once she looked back at Davy's Light. Through the scurrying snow and
sleet it shone steadily and hopefully, unaffected by the wind and fury
that waged war outside.
"It is like a thought of God!" she whispered, and her courage rose.
Only a dune-bred girl could have withstood the force of the storm, but
by pausing for breath now and again, by sliding and gaining strength
walking backward, she made fair progress, and, guided by the Light,
headed for the halfway house. In that she would wait and hide. If it
were Billy's patrol, she would be there to see him! If not? Well, time
enough for future plans! She knew Billy would disapprove her action, but
she must know!
Once the dunes were gained, their landward side was sheltered. Janet sat
down in the long grass to rest before ascending. The snow cut her face
and the thunder of the waves deafened her. After a few minutes she
started on. Davy's Light was straight behind her, so the halfway house
lay directly before. On, on in the dark and noise! She felt her way
with hands outstretched in front of her. At the dune top, the real
magnitude of the storm was apparent. On the mainland it was
comparatively mild. Here wind, tide, and heavy sea were let loose and
were battling in ferocious freedom.
"Ah!" Janet caught her breath and staggered back, clutching the tall,
dry, ice-covered grass to steady herself; but a few more steps brought
her rudely against the shelter house. She pushed the door open. Neither
man had as yet arrived, so there was no fire lighted in the little
stove. Janet began to gather the wood and coal together in her stiff
fingers; but something stayed her. She felt ill and weak. So instead,
she crawled under the bench that ran across the side of the tiny hut and
hid in the darkness. She began to fear Billy's displeasure. For a moment
the faintness and nausea made cold and weariness sink into oblivion, and
before they reasserted themselves the door was opened and some one came
in.
The dense darkness hid him, and Janet waited. The man struck a match and
hurriedly started the fire. By the sudden blaze she saw that it was Ai
Trueman, one of the crew from the farther station. Once the fire was
kindled and burning, the man sat down in the corner of the bench
directly over Janet's hiding place and shook his sou'wester free of the
ice and snow that had collected upon it. It was not long before the door
opened again. The fire was ruddily lighting the shed by this time, and
Janet, from her cramped position, saw Billy. Something in his appearance
made her catch her breath in alarm. It was not his ice-covered garments
that glistened in the red light nor his grim, rigid face, but the
strange stare of his wide-opened eyes that caused her alarm.
"Bad night," said Ai, "but we've made good time." Billy had dropped upon
the opposite bench, and the ice crackled upon his garments.
"Petered out some?" Ai now looked at Billy. "Ye look kind o' done fur."
"Take my check out o' my pocket, left-hand one,"--Billy's voice sounded
far off and thin,--"an' put yours in. My hands is bit. The lids of my
eyes got froze down on my cheeks an' I couldn't see, so I thawed 'em out
by holdin' my hands up, an'--an' my hands caught it!"
Janet dared not move.
Ai exchanged checks, and then he bent over Billy.
"Ye all right?" he asked doubtfully.
"Sure." Billy tried to laugh, but his voice shook. "A frostbite don't
count none. I'm thawed out enough now fur my own comfort. I dar n't take
my eye off the bar. I tell _you_, Ai, if there's trouble t'-night, it's
goin' t' be real trouble."
"'T is that!" said Ai, and the two men stood up.
"Good night, Ai."
"Good night, Billy, an' let's hope fur a safe walk back."
They were gone! Then Janet came from her hiding. Her sickness had
passed; she was warmer and more comfortable, but she meant to keep close
to Billy on that return patrol! If all went well, he would forgive her
by and by. She was on the point of pushing the door open, when suddenly
the full blast of the gale struck her in the face. Some one was coming
back. It was Billy and he stood before her. Her face was away from the
light, and her sou'wester, drawn close, misled Billy; but Janet saw his
eyes wide and staring.
"Ai," he panted, and his voice was thick, "I--I can't do it! The--the
works are runnin' down agin. It's better t' tell ye than t' drop out
there on the sand, an' no one ever know. Hurry back, man, an' watch both
ways as long as ye can."
Billy swayed forward and Janet caught him. She laid him upon the floor
and bent above him.
"My Cap'n!" she moaned, "oh! Cap'n Billy!" But Billy heeded her not.
"He's dead!" The horror-filled words startled even the speaker. "Dead!
my Billy!" But no, he breathed! "I must do his work, and get help!" the
girl started up wildly. "He isn't dead! He shall not die!" She took his
check from his pocket, and his Coston light. Then she gently moved him
nearer the stove, put coal on the blaze, and loosened the heavy coat.
"Now!" she muttered, and rushed out into the night and storm. The
strength of ten seemed to possess her; and the calmness of desperation
lent her power.
The noise of the wind deadened the sound of the surf. Sometimes she
found herself knee deep in icy water,--for the tide was terribly high.
Then she crawled up to the dunes and felt with mittened hands for the
stiff grass. Presently she came to a rock, a rare thing on that coast,
and she clung to it desperately. It was as true a landmark to the girl
of the Station as a mountain peak would have been to an inland
traveller.
"Only a mile more!" she panted, and then a memory of one of Davy's old
hymns came to her:
"The shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land."
She recalled how she, as a little child, had often crouched beside this
very rock when the summer's sun beat hot upon the sand. Summer! Was
there ever such a thing as summer on this ice-bound shore? She dreaded
to set forth again. A stupor was creeping over her, a stupor she had
been trained to fear. She struggled to her feet, but the mad thought of
summer would cling to her benumbed fancy. It fascinated and lured her
dangerously. She saw the Hills rise, many colored, in the blackness. She
saw Thornly's little hut with its door set open to the cool, refreshing
breeze. It was a breeze then, this fierce, cruel wind. It was a gentle
breeze when summer and love held part! She heard again the call of the
golden whistle; and this fancy made her draw her breath in sharp gasps.
She shut her stiff lids and saw Thornly coming over the sunlighted Hills
with his joy-filled face, shining in the summer day!
Oh! if she could but hear that golden call just once again how happy she
would be! Maybe, when death came, God would let Thornly call her in
that way, just as God had let Susan Jane's lover come to her upon the
shining, incoming wave!
But then Thornly was not her lover; she was his and that was different!
"Death!" Again the girl struggled forward. She must not die! Why, Billy
was there alone, in the halfway house--and Billy's duty was still
unperformed.
On, on once again! The wind was blowing in gusts now. It was reckoning
with the near-coming day and was lessening in fury. But the sudden
blasts were almost worse than the steady gale. Janet, weakened and numb,
was hardly upon her way, before she was knocked from her feet by the
cruel force and lay, face downward, upon the icy sand! Hurt and
discouraged, she yet managed to rise. The pain roused her dulled senses
and in the lull that followed a strange ghostly sound was borne seaward.
She stopped and stood upright. Again it came, plaintively and
persistently, rising and falling. As if the faint note had power over
night and tempest, the blackness seemed to break; the snow ceased, and
overhead, through a riven cloud, a pale, frightened moon peered
curiously. Then the wind shrieked defiantly. But again it came, that
tender, penetrating call, nearer, nearer, over the dunes, and down
toward the thundering sea!
Still, as if frozen where she stood, Janet waited for--she knew not
what! Some one, in the dim, grayish light, was coming toward her, some
one tall and strong, but well-nigh spent! The man had seen her, too.
"How far am I from the Station?" he shouted.
It was Thornly's voice! It was the little whistle's call that had
stilled the storm, and brought hope!
Janet could not answer. All power seemed gone from her. When he came
close he would know her and then--why, why had he come?
The girl had forgotten her disfiguring garments. Thornly was within a
foot of her before he understood. Then he reeled back. The moon, for
another still moment, shone full upon the ice-covered figure and the
upturned face framed by the old sou'wester.
"My God!" he cried and stretched out his arms, hardly knowing whether he
were warding off an apparition or reaching out to the woman he was
seeking so earnestly.
"You!" he whispered, "you! Alone out here in all the storm and
darkness!" She tried to answer, but words failed her. She smiled
pitifully and put her hands in his.
"I have wandered for hours!" Thornly was holding the girl closer. "Do
you hear and understand, Janet? I went to the Light. I saw your note
lying open on the table; I was afraid for you! I lost my way on the ice.
I had only Davy's Light to guide me; I landed, heaven only knows where!
But I wanted you! I've got you at last!" A fierceness shook the eager
voice, that was raised above the noises of the night.
"Yes!" Janet spoke low and dreamily; again the cold stilled her pain.
The moon was hidden and grim darkness held them. "You--you
want--me--to--help you finish--your picture!"
It really was a small matter; but even in the strangeness and numbness
the girl wished he had not come. He was greater and dearer when he had
stayed away and sacrificed his picture for her honor, and his own.
"My picture? Good Lord! What do I care for my picture? Child, I want
you. Oh! I want you to help me to finish my life!" Thornly shook the
girl gently. She was in his arms. She was leaning against him heavily,
her icy garment striking harshly against his. How he blessed his great
strength that terrible night! He reasoned that Janet had crossed the bay
as he had, bent upon some errand at the Station. He had overtaken her in
time, thank God! for her strength was fast failing.
"I must carry you!" he cried, but his words were drowned in the wind's
howling. "Here, I have my flask. Drink, Janet! Drink, dear, it will give
you new life. We must make the Station together."
Janet swallowed painfully, but the liquor brought relief. Clinging to
Thornly, she went silently on. Between the last two dune tops, Davy's
Light again shone.
"Only a half mile more!" panted the girl. Thornly knew the value of
making the most of what they had, and without speaking he pressed
forward, holding her close. Suddenly Janet stopped and pointed stiffly
seaward.
"The bar!" she groaned. "See! a rocket!"
Thornly strained his eyes.
"Another!" the girlish voice was tense and hoarse. "They are on the
outer bar. God help them! Here, get the Coston out. Strike a light! My
hands are stiff. Oh! it rises! They answer! They know we have seen them.
Poor souls! Come, we must run!"
[Illustration: "They're on the outer bar! Two rockets! I've answered!"]
And she, who but a moment before was half dead from cold and exposure,
now ran as if sand and heavy, icy clothing had no power to stay her.
Thornly, filled with terror at this new development and fearing that the
girl beside him would not be able to reach the Station, seized her more
firmly and rushed forward.
"Oh! the Station! Do not lift me; I can make it now!" Thornly did not
relinquish his hold, and together they flung themselves against the
heavy doors of the little house.
The light and warmth were in their faces. A ring of startled men stood
before them.
"They're on the outer bar! Two rockets! I've answered!" The words came
in hard, quick breaths, and Janet swayed forward. It was Thornly who
bore her to a chair most distant from the red-hot stove. The men had
vanished like spectres. There was a hurried noise in the further room,
as the big cart, bearing the apparatus, was pushed into the night and
storm.
"Opposite Davy's Light between the last two dunes!" called Janet.
"All right!" Some one replied from beyond, then a stillness followed.
Thornly stood guard over the girl as she sat helplessly in the wooden
chair. The ice was melting and dripping from her clothing; the
sou'wester had fallen away from the sweet, worn face, and the pretty
cheeks showed two ominous white spots that bespoke frozen flesh.
"I dare not take you nearer the fire!" Thornly's voice was unsteady. His
own returning circulation and consequent pain made him cruelly conscious
of what he knew she was suffering.
She looked up bravely and smiled. "It's pretty bad," she said with a
quiver. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Then noticing for the first time that
Thornly was less protected than she, for he wore only his heavy
overcoat, which was crusted thick with ice, she forgot her own agony in
genuine alarm.
"Take off those frozen things!" she commanded; "you must be drenched
through and through without an oiler. Make yourself comfortable. I must
go!"
"Go! In heaven's name, go where?" Thornly paused as he was taking off
his cap, over which he had tied a silk muffler, and stared at the girl.
"Why, to Cap'n Billy. You do not understand. He is back in the halfway
house. He may be dead!" A shiver ran over Janet, and she struggled to
her feet. "It is awful for me to sit here! You know nothing. I must
go!"
Thornly firmly held her back.
"His check," she faltered, "take it out of my pocket, please. No, the
left-hand pocket. That's it. Hang it there on the rack by the door. I
may not return, you know."
"There's no time for explanations, Janet." Thornly had followed the
girl's directions mechanically, and now urged her back in the chair. "Of
course I will not let you go, but I am going to Cap'n Billy. Whatever
can be done, I will do. I will bring him on here, or I will stay with
him there until help reaches us; but you must obey what I say and wait
for us. You must trust me."
She looked up at him tear blinded and pitiful.
"Let me go with you," she pleaded. "I am used to it, and after all--what
matters now?"
Thornly seized an oilskin coat from a peg on the wall, and thrust his
arms into it.
"What matters?" he stopped to ask, looking at Janet with a puzzled
stare. "Why, don't you know, little girl, that this is the beginning of
everything for us? Can't you understand?" Over his anxiety and
excitement a sense of joy flooded. "Here!" he cried, trying to cheer
her, "it's going to be all right with Cap'n Billy and every one else.
Give me that rear decked boat you have on your head, Janet, and you'll
promise to stay here until I return?"
He bent over her and drew the icy mittens from the stiff, little hands;
then he raised the cold fingers to his lips, and looked into the depths
of the upturned eyes. He had gone through his doubts and struggles since
he had left her on the Hills; she, poor girl, had long ago relinquished
her hope and love, but as she gazed now into the eyes bent above her she
understood!
It was the climax of their young lives. Whatever lay beyond they could
not know. Whatever forces had driven them into this sanctuary they
neither of them sought to question. It might be their only moment.
"I will wait," Janet whispered, clinging to him, "I will wait for
you--and Cap'n Daddy!"
After Thornly was gone the unreality passed. The howling of the gale,
and the memories that flooded the present loneliness, drove the sudden
dream before them. While she stood housed and protected all that was
dear to her, all that meant life to her, was out there in the storm!
Cap'n Billy dying, perhaps dead, three miles beyond!
The crew manfully doing their duty by the men on the outer bar!
Thornly, struggling to perform a task that might be beyond his strength;
while she, amid the danger and storm, stood idle!
"Why!" she cried, "this is as bad as that drowsiness out on the shore. I
must do something! I had no right to promise!" She ran to the window and
tore aside the little curtain. Her heavy coat fell from her, and with it
seemed to drop the weight and burden that had oppressed her. The
sluggishness of mind and body was gone. She was herself again! "No
promise must hold me from my Cap'n Daddy!" she whispered in a soft
defiance.
Just then the darting lanterns of the crew, far down the beach,
attracted her. And through the grim, grayish light of the dying night
shone Davy's Light, faithful and strong.
She stood surrounded by courageous duty. Her life lesson had been one
long training for duty. Was she to fail now?
But what was her duty? Slowly a radiance spread from brow to chin. The
livid spots on either cheek smarted into consciousness at the rush of
blood that bore surrender with it. Above even Billy's claim to her
faithfulness was her promise to Thornly! There was one greater, now, in
her life than Cap'n Billy.
"And he has undertaken my task!" She pressed her burning cheek to the
frosted glass. "I will trust him, and he shall trust me!"
So while Davy tended his Light, while the crew gave heart of hope to the
wretched men upon the outer bar, while Thornly in the dark and storm
struggled onward to the doing of a duty he had taken upon himself, Janet
made ready for what might lie before.
She ran to the loft above and carried down cots and blankets. She heated
kettles of water and fed the huge stove until it blazed and roared; then
she brought from the Captain's room the medicine chest and the liquor
that were kept for emergencies.
Still no one came! Janet gave herself no time for idle thought, nor did
she permit her fevered fancy to run free. There was still something to
do! She must provide for them who were risking their lives for others.
She made strong coffee, and cut slices of bread from the massive loaves.
Then suddenly, like a flash of humor in the tortured loneliness, she
remembered Jared Brown's liking for tomatoes and set forth a large can.
The homely tasks were steadying the strained nerves, but every time the
wind rattled the doors the girl started.
The hours dragged on. The gale began to sob spasmodically as the day
conquered it. The grayish light outside brightened--what was that?
The shed door was opening! The panting wind tore the kitchen door wide,
and Janet saw three men advancing! She tried to run to them, but the
body refused to respond to the eager will. She could not anticipate a
knowledge that might mean so much!
Thornly and Ai Trueman came into the glow of the hot kitchen, and
between them they dragged Cap'n Billy! Janet saw that he was alive, and
when he realized that it was she who stood before him, the old,
comforting smile struggled to the poor, worn face.
"Don't take on!" he panted as they placed him upon the nearest cot and
began to strip his icy clothing from him; "this ain't what ye might call
anythin' at all!"
Janet knelt beside him. "My Cap'n!" was all she could say; "my own, dear
Cap'n Daddy!"
"Ye little--specimint!" Billy closed his eyes luxuriously. "They've told
me what ye've done!"
"I found him in the halfway house," Ai explained while Thornly mixed a
hot drink for Billy. "You see, I was nearly back t' the Station when I
saw that signal frum the bar. My crew had seen it, too, an' they come
racin' down as I was makin' fur them. On the way back I noticed the
door o' the shelter open an' a tearin' fire lightin' up the place. I
stopped t' see that all was safe, an' there on the floor, actin' like
all possessed, was Billy! He was fur goin' with the men, but he couldn't
stand on his legs. It was somethin' fierce the way he took on. I sort o'
hauled him up an' swore I'd get him down t' the shore somehow, when this
gentleman," Ai waved one of Billy's boots, which he had just managed to
get off, toward Thornly, "come in an' he kind o' took command, as you
might say, an' ordered us on t' this here port."
Janet was pressing her face against the weary one upon the pillow, and
murmuring over and over in a gentle lullaby, "My Cap'n, my Cap'n!"
Thornly came over to the cot and raised Billy to feed him the drink.
Billy looked up and smiled feebly.
"If I ain't needed here," Ai said, "I'll take a haul o' coffee an' then
fetch some down t' the men." Janet started.
"Oh! I forgot," she cried; "what about the wreck?"
"The tide's turnin'," Ai replied from the depths of a bowl of coffee.
"Like as not the ship will lift by mornin'! More frightened than hurt
anyway, I guess. They've signalled us t' stand by till daybreak, but I'm
thinkin' they'll hist before then!"
When Ai had gone Thornly put the cup down, and placed Billy back on the
pillows. The heavy eyes opened and fell upon the two faces near. Then a
puzzled expression settled in the kindly gaze.
"Ye've got yer chart t' sail by, my gal," he whispered, going back in
memory to that night when he had told Janet of her mother. "I ain't
goin' t' worry any more!"
The words trailed off into unconsciousness, and Cap'n Billy swung at
anchor between this port and that beyond.